


Featherbent

by FiveTail



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, featherbent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:11:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiveTail/pseuds/FiveTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Chapter 1 is extremely image-heavy!] The Strata serves as a homestead for a dichotomy of inhabitants: perches, who are passive, independent, and nomadic in nature, and hunters, who are built stronger, fiercer, with a higher population count, and a complex social network sorted rigidly by caste, the head of which make up the current ruling class. Whether you're living by the light of mushrooms in the dark and damp Understory, within the bright, highly coveted spaces of the leafy Canopy, or the windy upper-class heights of the Emergent, the two classes live in harmony alongside one another, with all citizens celebrating their prosperity with a year-end tradition known as the Sweep. When John Egbert carelessly treads the forbidden reaches of the Forest Floor, however, he finds that it shelters more than a few treacherous secrets about the place he was once proud to call home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Such Great Heights - Arc 1, Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Featherbent is a visual novel created by myself and my partner-in-crime, [nevernoahh](http://nevernoahh.tumblr.com).
> 
> It turned out to be a massive collaborative piece complete will full soundtrack and voice acting. I have decided to archive transcripts and screenshots from the game for archival purposes, and for those unable to play the game, for easy view and easy text searching, and because it's a better place to find and receive concrit, but if this is your first time coming across the series, you are seriously missing out on about 90% of the experience.
> 
>  
> 
> [ **Please consider downloading the actual game here for the full experience!** ](http://featherbent.com/games)
> 
>  
> 
> Protip: All images here are scaled down to save space. If you would like to see the actual size of the image, right click it, and open the image in another window.

  
  
Seasons’ end heralds the beginning of celebration.

  
  
Citizens across the Strata engage in long-standing tradition filled with stories, drink, and song.  
Patrons of the damp Underbrush take solace beneath the shade of their natural darkness, spending the day gathering friends and family under a host’s roof before shutting the doors and windows and regaling around a quiet fire.

The leafy umbrella of the Canopy provides illuminated residence for those more detail-oriented in their decor; the collectors, the hoarders, the poachers, any strong enough to defend their stead earn the right  
to much larger living spaces, with far more room to decorate.

Those housed in the windy heights of the Emergent hold an annual gala reserved for the social elite, famous for its glorious feast and black-tie dance held in an extravagant open court.

No matter one’s station, members across all echelons partook in festivities, celebrating the passing of dark days and the sunlight yet to come.

  
  
Preparations for the Sweep begin precisely twenty-four days in advance.

  
  
A young man stands in his nest, and it just so happens that today is this young man's preparation day.

  
  
He whistles as he works, and he is still self-conscious of his song.

  
  
The live-in population of sundries he’s collected during his travels serve as his audience. Books are strewn across the desks. Captured firebugs hang from the ceiling. A teapot sits atop a small pit in the middle of the floor. The Understory tree hollow is decorated with all sorts of reflective minerals, dark blue rocks that shine indigo in just the right light, while mushrooms whose roots tangled well into stone lend their multi-coloured glow to the floor of the crook. The scent of last night’s rain clings to the bark of his nesting walls, thick and musty, familiar and comforting.

John’s tune carries along once more, but the melody that drifts through the air still doesn’t match the one that plays so perfectly in his head.

Suddenly, a familiar voice.

  
  
[???]: Careful who you let hear that, John. Wouldn’t want to mislead a girl, would we?

  
  
A slender hand with blue-painted fingernails curls around the room’s entrance curtain. The luminescent mushrooms framing the doorway tint the outline of the young woman’s silhouette ice blue; she is clad in the leather and loose cotton stylings of her legendary seafaring ancestry.

  
  
She gives an unwitting toss of silky raven hair as wild as the spark in her eyes, and the smile she passes John glints brighter than the gold dangling from her ears.

  
  
JOHN: Hey, Vriska! What are you doing here?

  
  
VRISKA: What, can’t a girl visit her best friend without being interrogated?

  
  
JOHN: Oh, you know I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re always welcome here.

  
  
JOHN: Come on in!

  
  
She ducks upon entering the crook, her hard boots clicking against wood as she walks. She ruffles her storm grey feathers, sleek and preened, trying to adjust to the humble space of John’s nest. 

  
  
John takes a look at Vriska’s wings and self-consciously runs his fingers through the loose fluffy blue of his own.

  
  
A proud member of the hunting class, Vriska Serket belonged to an order different than John’s.

  
  
Hunters were the predatory dominants whose government maintained a firm rule over the Strata: by default, they were built larger, stronger, and much more fierce, with a culture that determined social status by feather caste. 

  
  
John’s order came in all sorts of colours; Vriska’s came in only twelve. 

  
  
Unable to get comfortable, Vriska scrunches her nose. 

  
  
VRISKA: Man, I still don’t understand how you can live in such a cramped dump. I can barely stretch my wings in here!

  
  
JOHN: I don’t know what you’re talking about, this place is cozy.

  
  
VRISKA: Ugh, and it reeks, too. Everything smells like mud.

  
  
VRISKA: At least you don’t have to worry about people challenging you for this place. Can’t think of anyone who’d fight you over such a crappy nest, honestly.

  
  
JOHN: Dude.

  
  
JOHN: You don’t just start insulting a guy’s home as soon as you walk through the front door!

  
  
JOHN: Cut me some slack, alright? This was my dad’s place.

  
  
JOHN: I’ve been trying to keep it looking good for when he comes back.

  
  
VRISKA: ...John.

  
  
VRISKA: Your dad’s been gone for, like. Five years.

  
  
JOHN: Yeah, so?

  
  
VRISKA: ...

  
  
VRISKA: Ooooooookay, then.

  
  
VRISKA: Look, all I’m saying is that if you had a nicer nest, then maybe you’d have a pretty girl to spend the Sweep with this year around.

  
  
JOHN: You mean besides you?

  
  
VRISKA: :::;)

  
  
VRISKA: No, but seriously, I worry about you.

  
  
VRISKA: When was the last time you went on a date?

  
  
JOHN: Well.

  
  
JOHN: I.

  
  
JOHN: ...

  
  
JOHN: Do you really think my nest is the reason why girls don’t like me?

  
  
VRISKA: Well, there’s that.

  
  
VRISKA: Plus your unkempt feathers.

  
  
VRISKA: And your messy hair.

  
  
VRISKA: And the fact you’re kind of an asshole.

  
  
JOHN: What’s wrong with my hair‽

  
  
VRISKA: Just telling it like it is, John.

  
  
JOHN: Hey, I don’t see you going around inviting hot guys to your nest for the Sweep, either.

  
  
VRISKA: Obviously not.

  
  
JOHN: ...

  
  
JOHN: Hey!

  
  
JOHN: Why am I staying with you over the Sweep, again, anyway? Weren’t you seeing that one hunter a while ago?

  
  
JOHN: What was his name, again?

  
  
JOHN: Thomas? Travis?

  
  
VRISKA: Oh, who cares about him? He was about as much of a hunter as I am a perch...

  
  
Their conversation is interrupted by the high-pitched whistling of a boiling teapot. 

  
  
VRISKA: Hey, look, your water’s done!

  
  
VRISKA: You know what would be perfect right about now? A niiiiiiiice cup of tea.

  
  
JOHN: Oh, sure thing!

  
  
JOHN: Let me get that for you.

  
  
The pot is suspended over a special breed of reddish-orange, heat-generating mushrooms, whose collective warmth strengthened with their number. The pile inside the pit is just enough to get the water boiling. 

  
  
Vriska folds her legs to sit before reaching for a silk pouch on the floor. John lifts the top of the teapot for her, and she carefully shakes out some of the leaves from inside the bag.

  
  
Once it steeps, the tea is poured into the only two cups John owns.

  
  
It has been just the two of them for quite some time.

  
  
“May the Sweep bring you to such great heights,” he laughs, raising his cup.

  
  
“Don’t look down,” she replies.

  
  
Her smile crinkles the corners of her eyes as their cups clink.

  
  
When celebrating the Sweep, it is customary for a guest to bring their host a gift, a Token as thanks for providing nest during the festivities.

  
  
A hunter with a fondness for tea shouldn’t be too difficult to shop for, yet when the best leaves in the nation grow in a little-known area restricted as protected territory by the Imperial Guards, one must weigh the value of a Token against the dangers of retrieving it.

  
  
He treads across the Forest Floor, knowing she is well worth the risk.

  
  
By virtue of being the lowest story, the Forest Floor sees very little sunlight during the day, slipping effortlessly into the depths of pitch-black by nightfall. Visibility consists of acres of shadow punctuated by patches of light. The atmosphere is desolate and murky, with thin films of fog draped as motionless curtains in the thick, humid air.

  
  
The Floor provides no proper home for any friendly soul, as citizens of the Strata are often reminded: a legion of Imperial Guards are stationed at the borders to keep the innocents out, and to protect them from the violent predators lurking within the deep.

  
  
Only the stealthiest, the bravest, and the most cunning could possibly make it through here, John thinks to himself, as the gentle breeze crashes a single red feather against his boot.

  
  
John leans down to pick it up.

  
  
Bright red.

  
  
What a curious colour.

  
  
Red itself was by no means uncommon amongst perches--one of John’s closer friends even sported them, himself--yet never before had John encountered a shade so vibrant.

  
  
John glances up and catches sight of a matching feather caught in the branches of a bush up ahead. He collects it as well.

  
  
Bright red is tangled in the massive, gnarled roots of the trees.

  
  
A few more identical feathers have gathered into a crook further down, with even more in the tall grass on the far end.

  
  
If the Guards never touched the Floor, who did these belong to?

  
  
The hunters’ feather caste didn’t come in red, which meant the plumage must have belonged to a fellow perch, someone of John’s own kind.

  
  
Another perch made it down here, too.

  
  
A sudden jolt of excitement rushes through John as he continues adding to the bouquet of a complete stranger’s sheddings. 

  
  
Cautious not to stumble upon the eyes or tail of anything deadly, he strays further away from his path in search of the soul, following the trail of red deeper and deeper into the congested mess of trees. 

  
  
There’s a break in the forest.

  
  
John reaches a small patch of clearing, illuminated by thin beams of sunlight piercing through the shadows. The space carries a strange sense of calm and serenity, a spotlight of still haven hidden deep within the maze of wood and leaves.

  
  
Red feathers litter the area. The source seems to be a visible opening at the base of a tree, just large enough for a person to squeeze into if they tried.

  
  
A strange weapon rests in the grass nearby.

  
  
**[ >1\. Examine weapon.]**  
[>2\. Examine opening of tree base.]

  
  
The hooked blade is coloured in stripes of white, green, and pink.

  
  
What ugly colours to have on a sickle. Who designed this crap?

  
  
[>1\. Examine weapon.]  
 **[ >2\. Examine opening of tree base.]**

  
  
John crouches down to peek into the opening made by the base of the tree. What lies beneath appears to be a small dugout. It’s difficult to see inside, at first.

  
  
He lets his eyes adjust. The dim light of a single, dying mushroom glows softly in the far corner; in the opposite corner, however, rests the silhouette of a figure, curled up within itself in a twist of cords and rags poorly fashioned into a makeshift cloak.

  
  
JOHN: Woah, you made it to the Floor, too? Imperial Guards sure do suck at their job.

  
  
[???]: ....

  
  
JOHN: Nice to meet you! My name’s John. John Egbert. What’s yours? And what are you doing on the Floor, anyway? Look, you better not have taken all the good tea leaves, I woke up before dawn to make it down here.

  
  
[???]: ...

  
  
JOHN: You know, you aren’t moving very much. Are you dying or something? Did you fly all the way down here just to die?

  
  
JOHN: Not that there’s anything wrong with personal preference or whatever, but if I was dying, I’d do it somewhere way more hilarious. Like up in a Canopy fountain or something. Then I’d become a ghost and I’d haunt the fountain until they renamed it after me.

  
  
[???]: ...

  
  
JOHN: Look, all I’m saying is that this is a really crummy place to die and you probably should’ve thought this through a little more.

  
  
[???]: I’m not dying, you dumb fuck.

  
  
JOHN: So you did take all the good tea leaves!

  
  
[???]: What--no! I don’t even drink tea!

  
  
JOHN: ...

  
  
JOHN: You know for a couple seconds there I thought we could actually be friends.

  
  
[???]: Is there something you wanted to accomplish by coming here besides making my already unyielding state of misery marginally more difficult to deal with?

  
  
JOHN: Well, the Sweep’s coming up. I need to grab Token for my friend Vriska and the best tea leaves grow on the Forest Floor.

  
  
[???]: Token?

  
  
[???]: You’re not from around here.

  
  
[???]: How did you make it past the guards?

  
  
JOHN: They keep their rotation schedules pretty tight, but there’s a path around the back that you need some pretty sharp maneuvering skills to get past. It takes a few hours both ways and it’s really easy to hurt yourself if you’re not careful.

  
  
JOHN: Thankfully, I’m pretty much the best flyer I know.

  
  
JOHN: How did you make it past the monsters?

  
  
[???]: Monsters?

  
  
[???]: Is that what they’re calling us, now?

  
  
JOHN: Huh? No, what I’m saying is I’ve been tea-picking and predator-dodging for years and I’ve never seen you before.

  
  
[???]: I’ve been down here for years, don’t pin your astounding lack of fucking awareness on me.

  
  
JOHN: What I mean is this is the first time I’ve ever met anyone else.

  
  
[???]: That’s probably because your funny-looking tea leaves only grow on the eastern border. No one down here gives a shit about the eastern border because there’s nothing but fucking tea leaves over there.

  
  
[???]: See, when you’re forced to spend all your time scavenging for food and water, making a good cup of tea gets pretty low on the list.

  
  
JOHN: There are other people living here?

  
  
[???]: ...

  
  
JOHN: Wait, is that why you’re sick? Because you haven’t been eating?

  
  
[???]: Who says I’m sick?

  
  
JOHN: Well, your feathers are all falling out, for one thing. It’s not moulting season, so that narrows it down.

  
  
JOHN: You have your wings all bundled up, too. Are you too weak to fly?

  
  
[???]: I don’t know where the fuck you get off thinking you can stumble upon my territory uninvited while flaunting around your pity like you’re proud of that lovingly brandished olive branch you have stuck up your ass, but I can assure you I’m just fucking fine, thanks for the concern.

  
  
[???]: Even though the royalty is responsible for casting us down to the shit-end of the Strata without a fucking paddle, everyone here still celebrates the holidays enacted by royal decree. They get into their cute little cozy fucking communities and help each other prepare for the Sweep celebration.

  
  
[???]: Resources go drier than normal. I take myself out of the running for a while.

  
  
JOHN: Look, I’m pretty much a hundred percent sure everyone with half a brain knows the royalty is made up of a bunch of snooty elitist buttholes, but would you really rather get all righteous about them instead of joining everyone else in celebration and, I don’t know, not starving?

  
  
JOHN: That sounds dumb.

  
  
[???]: Don’t pretend you know anything about what I’ve been through or what I’m doing here, you ignorant shitheel.

  
  
JOHN: You can keep your tragic, mysterious past to yourself, dude, fact of the matter is you could probably use a muffin..

  
  
[???]: Are you providing muffins? No? Then kindly go the fuck away.

  
  
**[ >1\. Give him a muffin.]**  
[>2\. Ask him when the last time he had a muffin was.]  
[>3\. Promise to give him a muffin at a later date.]  
[>4\. Ask if he’s allergic to nuts.]

  
  
He asks you for a muffin.

  
  
You reach into your pouch in an attempt to give him a muffin, but it turns out the muffin doesn’t really exist. Where the muffin originally stood, a picture of a muffin rests in its place.

  
  
The glint in the mysterious stranger’s eyes is very distinctly muffin-geared.

  
  
You keep the picture tucked away, wisely deciding not to antagonize him.

  
  
[>1\. Give him a muffin.]  
 **[ >2\. Ask him when the last time he had a muffin was.]**  
[>3\. Promise to give him a muffin at a later date.]  
[>4\. Ask if he’s allergic to nuts.]

  
  
JOHN: When was the last time you even ate a muffin?

  
  
[???]: This morning.

  
  
[???]: Can’t you see I’m fucking swimming in baking ingredients???

  
  
[???]: WHAT KIND OF FUCKING QUESTION EVEN IS THAT‽

  
  
JOHN: Okay, okay, yeesh! Sorry.

  
  
[>1\. Give him a muffin.]  
[>2\. Ask him when the last time he had a muffin was.]  
[>3\. Promise to give him a muffin at a later date.]  
 **[ >4\. Ask if he’s allergic to nuts.]**

  
  
JOHN: Are you allergic to nuts?

  
  
[???]: ...

  
  
JOHN: Because I am.

  
  
[???]: ...

  
  
JOHN: I am very deathly allergic to nuts.

  
  
[???]: Is giving me the information I need to kill you some kind of bullshit trust thing, or.

  
  
JOHN: [laughs] Death by nuts.

  
  
JOHN: Gross.

  
  
[>1\. Give him a muffin.]  
[>2\. Ask him when the last time he had a muffin was.]  
 **[ >3\. Promise to give him a muffin at a later date.]**  
[>4\. Ask if he’s allergic to nuts.]

  
  
JOHN: So, are you inviting me to your nest if I have muffins?

  
  
[???]: You don’t have any muffins.

  
  
JOHN: But I could have muffins.

  
  
JOHN: Do you want me to come back sometime with muffins?

  
  
[???]: Sure, come back before I starve to death with a delicate pink hand-weaved basket full of life-saving muffins and we can begin our journey into the most meaningful fucking friendship the Strata has ever seen.

  
  
JOHN: Do you like cranberries?

  
  
[???]: [exaggerated] I fucking love cranberries.

  
  
JOHN: Okay.

  
  
[???]: Get the fuck out of my nest.

  
  
The figure turns away, wrapping his blankets tighter around himself.

  
  
Looks like this conversation is over.

  
  
**[ >1\. Entertain him with a hypothetical.]**  
[>2\. Move on.]

  
  
JOHN: Would you rather fight a horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses?

  
  
[???]: ...

  
  
He doesn’t seem too keen on talking much more. Maybe it’s time to let him brood on his own for a little while.

  
  
It takes forty-five minutes and a brief run-in with a snake, but John manages to retrace his steps, making it back to what he now knows as the eastern border of the Forest Floor.

  
  
He packs off as many tea leaves as hehttp://i.imgur.com/vwHS2tZ.png can carry while curiosity nibbles at his thoughts.

  
  
He decides to ask Vriska a thing or two the next time he gets a chance.

  
  
Thick, aged parchment of an ancient treasure map serves as the oversized carpet of Vriska’s nest, its tattered borders curling in scrolls along the edges of the walls. Inks of all colours count numbers of steps, marking miles and dashed pathways to small cities and major landmarks long lost to the claws of sweeps gone by. Spiderwebs woven between high corners cast patterned shadows across the nest, a trait which would normally give the scene a gloomy atmosphere--yet, piles of precious gems and golden coins sparkle around the nest as decoration, glistening warmly in the dark.  
  
While it was tradition for hosts to celebrate their year’s prosperity by placing their most significant treasures on display and showing off their collection of wealth to their visitors...

  
  
... A certain patron of Vriska’s nest is too preoccupied to be impressed.

  
  
JOHN: See, you complain about my nest being smelly and cramped, but yours has cobwebs everywhere.

  
  
VRISKA: And?

  
  
JOHN: Haha, spiders are gross.

  
  
VRISKA: Fuck you!!!!!!!!

  
  
VRISKA: I was raised in a nest with lots of spiders, asshole. They make me feel at home.

  
  
JOHN: ...

  
  
JOHN: Do you...ever miss your mom?

  
  
VRISKA: Eh.

  
  
VRISKA: Teach your kids the basics and leave. That’s just the way hunters do things, John!

  
  
VRISKA: Sure, sometimes I think about what things would be like if she were still around. But being on your own builds strength and character! Without that, I wouldn’t be who I am today.

  
  
VRISKA: Wouldn’t have made a name for myself out here with all these other hunters. Wouldn’t have won this nest in the fight against the poor sucker who had it before. Heck, I wouldn’t have been able to defend it for this long!

  
  
VRISKA: Not that it’s a surprise people keep challenging me for it. I mean, look how sweet this setup is!!!!!!!!

  
  
JOHN: Haha, yeah...

  
  
VRISKA: Tsk, what’s the matter, now?

  
  
JOHN: I don't know...

  
  
JOHN: Perches don’t work the way hunters do. I mean, we fly away from home when we’re of age and stuff, but our parents aren’t supposed to just...disappear.

  
  
JOHN: It’s another Sweep without my dad and sometimes I wonder if he’s ever coming back for me.

  
  
VRISKA: See, this is what I’ve been trying to talk to you about.

  
  
VRISKA: Look, maybe your dad comes back. Maybe he doesn’t. In the meantime, show some goddamn independence! Move on! Get over it! Show him you can do just fine on your own! What would he think if he knew you were wasting your life moping around waiting for him????????

  
  
VRISKA: Live for the people who are here for you. Not for the people who could be.

  
  
JOHN: Yeah, yeah, I know.

  
  
Smiling, Vriska brushes a curled finger beneath his chin, tipping his head up until their eyes meet.

  
  
VRISKA: Chin up, John. We don’t look down, remember?

  
  
VRISKA: Besides, you have me! What more could you possibly need?

  
  
VRISKA: I mean, other than those perches you’re friends with.

  
  
VRISKA: Like that obnoxious redwing who lives in the phonograph. He still owes me Token, by the way, so if you still want him here for the Sweep, you better get him to cough up soon.

  
  
VRISKA: Why couldn’t you invite the greenwing who spends all her time inventing those weird little gadgets? You know, the one always off on those adventures? I like her.

  
  
JOHN: Yeah, Jade’s cool! I wish she could’ve made it, but she’s been completely obsessed with these signals she’s been picking up from across the forest lately. There’s no stopping her once she sniffs out a trail.

  
  
VRISKA: Drat. Maybe next time, then.

  
  
Shrugging, Vriska walks to the center of the nest, where a ceremonial bottle stands in the middle of a small table. She arranges a small mess of gold around it.

  
  
John always found it a real wonder just how much loot Vriska managed to collect from unsuspecting ships, especially considering he didn’t even know where the nearest lake was.

  
  
He knew the elaborately decorated bottle, however, was the hierarchy’s annual gift for all Canopy dwellers: a strong wine, specifically harvested and distributed for the festivities, made to only be uncorked during the Sweep celebration.

  
  
John couldn’t even bring himself to look forward to the wine.

  
  
He still had so many unanswered questions about the Forest Floor, and the curious stranger he’d found there that morning.

  
  
If there were predators lurking around down there, the guy might be in danger: doubly so, considering his health left him in no state to defend himself properly.

  
  
Unsightly as it was, that sickle provided no favours lying out abandoned in the grass like that.

  
  
JOHN: Vriska...

  
  
JOHN: What kind of monsters are on the Forest Floor?

  
  
John notices how Vriska tightens her wings, and keeps herself facing away from him. Worried that he might have made her suspicious, he hurries to continue. 

  
  
JOHN: I--I’m only wondering because it’s really weird how many Imperial Guards are stationed so low in the Strata just to keep people away! Sounds super suspicious, if you ask me.

  
  
JOHN: It makes me think they’re running some freaky military experiments or something. Either that or whatever’s down there is really, really dangerous.

  
  
VRISKA: Don’t be dumb, there’s nothing on the Forest Floor. Nothing that interesting, anyway.

  
  
VRISKA: Sure, there are some predators down there, but between you and me? It’s mostly just a bunch of outcasts and losers who couldn’t survive in main society.

  
  
VRISKA: Believe it or not, it takes a lot to cut it up here, John! Even in your crummy Understory. If you can’t take the heat, you hit the Floor to get out of the kitchen.

  
  
JOHN: But isn’t it illegal to go down there? I mean, how are people living on the Floor if you can’t even get past the border without being thrown out by guards?

  
  
VRISKA: Why are you so interested in the Forest Floor all of a sudden?

  
  
JOHN: Why are you being so touchy about it?

  
  
VRISKA: Because the Floor is Pyrope’s jurisdiction.

  
  
VRISKA: You know? Pyrope? The hunter whose idea of fun is making public spectacles out of hangings and leaving the bodies to rot in mid-air?

  
  
VRISKA: If you have questions about how she’s running things, why don’t you go ask her?

  
  
JOHN: Uh, no thanks. I choose breathing.

  
  
JOHN: But didn’t you two used to be friends or something?

  
  
VRISKA: Keywords: used to.

  
  
VRISKA: Rivalries are settled. Debts are repaid. People break even.

  
  
VRISKA: You move on! And you keep moving on by not sticking your nose in places it doesn’t belong.

  
  
JOHN: Okay, I get the hint!

  
  
JOHN: No sneaking, no snooping, no asking questions.

  
  
VRISKA: Great! Glad we had this conversation.

  
  
Vriska playfully nudges John’s arm as she passes him, en route to another box of pirate-themed decor across the room.

  
  
JOHN: Quick question, though.

  
  
VRISKA: Fire away!

  
  
JOHN: Would you mind helping me make some muffins for tomorrow? I’ll give you half the batch if you let me use some of your ingredients.

  
  
VRISKA: Are they cranberry?

  
  
JOHN: Duh.

  
  
VRISKA: Then I'd be happy to.

  
  
Now, where to find a pink basket...


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The AO3 Featherbent site serves only as an archived transcription of Featherbent.
> 
> [ **Please consider downloading the actual game here for the full experience!** ](http://featherbent.com/games)
> 
> Seriously, you're missing out on 90% of the awesomeness if you're only reading it here.
> 
> Dialogue options are posted in the suggested order you should take them in-game, due to the fact one out of every three options pushes the game forward. Props to [Del](http://princeyoshiya.tumblr.com) for their help with formatting the script.

**Later that afternoon…**

John: Thanks again for making muffins with me. I don’t know anyone else who has as many baking supplies as you do.

Vriska: No problem! Where did you learn to bake like that, anyway?

John: My dad! He loved baking. I wasn’t that big into it, but I’m pretty sure he just used it as an excuse to spend time with me.

John: Ingredients trade at a premium around here, though, since they’re so hard to come by.

John: Come to think of it...

John: Why _do_ you have so many baking ingredients here, anyway?

Vriska: ...I.

Vriska: Collect. Them.

Vriska: Yeah!

Vriska: Like you said, baking stuff is worth a lot, so I collect them like I would any other treasure.

John: That’s...kind of weird, but okay.

John: Well, I’ve left half the batch on the counter, like I promised. I’m gonna get going before it gets dark out.

John: See you later!

Vriska: Bye!

Throwing his satchel over his shoulder, John takes a running start at Vriska’s balcony before leaping over the edge. 

Vriska: What a goof. 

Vriska: ...huh? 

Something on the floor catches her attention. Something John left behind. 

The treasure map beneath Vriska’s feet carpets the nest, its depictions painted and handwritten, meticulously. 

Vriska crouches to examine John’s abandoned item. 

Between the detailed sketches of a landmark boulder and petrified tree stump, lies a bright, red feather. 

**\- Point of Divergence: John (1) and Vriska (2). -**

**Scene 1.1 - Dave and John. Dave’s nest.**

The second-highest layer of the Strata, the Canopy, exists just beneath the treetop territories of the royalty’s Emergent. 

Generous amounts of sunlight and rain make the Canopy the most hospitable and populated layer. Marketplaces of the commercial district bustle at its core. Close-knit communities pepper the outskirts. Living spaces are highly envied, meaning constant competition between citizens. Residents of the larger and more popular nests are limited to individuals determined enough to fight for their ground. The Canopy, of course, provides Vriska home amongst hundreds of other Hunters. 

Once in a while, however, a Perch manages to prove themselves worthy. 

John flutters, landing on the main branch keeping Dave’s gramophone propped up. 

His back turned to John, Dave begins bobbing his head. 

There doesn’t seem to be any source of music around. 

Finally, Dave turns around, offering a smirk. 

Dave: Oh shit, look who finally decided to bless the Strider residence with his presence. 

John: Hey, Dave! Sorry I haven’t been around much. I’ve been busy with stuff for the Sweep. 

John: You know how it is! Gathering Token and all that. 

Dave: Yeah, real subtle there, Egbert. 

Dave: Just an FYI, I was swinging by Serket's later to drop mine off. 

John: Cool, what did you get her? 

Dave: I’m not telling. 

Dave: Once in a while, you come up with a gift so pants-shittingly awesome you decide to keep it a secret to save everyone else the shame of coming to terms with how inadequate they are. 

Dave: And you better believe this is one of those times. 

John: You made her a CD, didn’t you. 

Dave: No. 

Dave: Even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you or your lame-ass bags of tea leaves. 

John: You’re lame. 

Dave: But your face is lamer. 

Dave: So what exactly is Mister Lame-Face doing all the way out here, anyway? You're about three klicks east of Serket's heaving bosom. You lost, or something? 

**[Options]**  
[1. Ask him why he’s bobbing his head like an idiot.]  
[2. Talk about his gramophone.]  
[3. Request a basket.] 

**[1. Ask him why he’s bobbing his head like an idiot.]**

John: Why are you bobbing your head like an idiot? 

Dave: Just moving with the music. 

John: What music? 

Dave: Oh you know, just the marching band outside. 

It's in my head numbnuts, what do you think? 

John: Oh, _that_ music. 

Dave: It started when you walked in. It's pretty cool. I should write this shit down. 

John: Riiiiiiiight. 

Dave: Hey, man, wouldn’t kill you to learn some rhythm. Speaking of, how’s your Song coming along? 

John: Horrible. I think I’m tone deaf. 

John: Shouldn’t I hold off on composing a Song until after I’ve found my mate? I mean, it’s not like I’m in danger of falling into that territory any time soon. 

Dave: You’re missing the point. Perches like you and me, we need to be prepared for this shit. Ready for when the moment hits. 

Dave: Picture it. Moonlight overhead. Gentle breeze. Softly rustling leaves. 

Dave: Then, BAM. 

Dave: Just you, your whistling, and the person you wanna pork for the rest of your natural life. 

John: Ew. 

John: Dude, you don’t even _have_ a Song. Don’t you just beatbox at that one girl you like? 

Dave: Psh, do you think I’m blowing my Muse-given talents on one lousy Song? You’ve gotta be kidding me. 

Dave: It’s called being versatile, Egbert. It’s not like everyone in the Strata’s born with my mad composition skills. 

Dave: Giving your Song to someone’s a big fuckin’ deal for normies like you, bro. When and where you do it sets the tone of the entire relationship. 

Dave: You gotta put everything into that proposal. Your heart and soul. 

John: Dave... 

John: I believe you’re talking out of your ass. 

Dave: Yeah, but I had you going for a while, didn't I? 

**[2. Talk about his gramophone.]**

John: Good to see your nest is as spiffy as ever. 

Dave: Better be, I polish the damn thing three times a week. Girl’s victim to some wear and tear, but she’s still got a song or two in her. 

John: This thing can still play music? 

Dave: Damn right it can. But the last time I broadcasted my beats, I got issued six challenges from Hunters who wanted to burn my fuckin’ house down. 

Dave: For the record, I wasn’t “disturbing the peace”. I was improving the silence. 

John: Yikes. 

John: No wonder you and Jade are the only ones who live in the Canopy. It must be dangerous up here with Hunters wanting your space all the time. 

Dave: Well, it’s not like a Hunter can just barge into your home and throw up a flag whenever they feel like it. Challenging someone for their nest is a formal process. There’s paperwork and shit. 

Dave: Besides, Harley’s got guns, I’ve got swords...it’s not like we don’t know how to fight. 

John: You mean you actually know how to use those shitty things? 

Dave: Duh. Bro got us this place. He’d kick my ass if I lost it to some asshole Hunter. 

Dave: Oh, and fuck you, don’t diss the swords. At least I’m not living in a three-by-three treehole that smells like mud. 

John: Alright, I get the point. 

John: How did you drag a gramophone all the way up here, anyway? 

Dave: Uh, I just told you. Bro did it. 

John: But...why would... 

Dave: John, John, John...we don't question why Bro does things. 

John: ...why not? 

Dave: See, that’s your problem. You ask too many questions. You shouldn’t waste time worrying about every little detail. Just go with the flow, and you’re good to go. 

Dave: For example. 

Dave: Bro flies out one night. Says he needs to buy cigarettes. 

Dave: Day after he leaves, I meet you. A week later, I meet Harley. 

Dave: That was five years ago. 

Dave: Have I seen him since then? No. 

Dave: Does he even smoke? Hell no. 

Dave: Did he even bring any money with him? What the fuck do you think. 

Dave: Did your dad and my bro get together one day to go on a five-year-long cross-country crime spree filled with sex, drugs, and scandal like some kind of fucked up Star Trek without the exploration and mostly just trolling for booty? 

Dave: ...I don’t know, probably not. 

Dave: Point is, I’m not worried about it. Because you know what the moral is, John? 

John: What? 

Dave: Say it with me now, boys and girls: We don't question why Bro does things. 

Dave: The end. 

John: That was a really shitty story. 

Dave: But you sat there and listened to it anyway. The hell’s wrong with you? 

**[3. Request a basket.]**

John: Dave, I need a basket. 

Dave: Didn’t I just lend you three last month? 

John: Yeah, but it’s not for me this time! It’s for a friend. 

Dave: Right. “A friend.” 

Dave: Look, you already owe me for seven baskets this sweep. My supplier? Ain’t so thrilled about the idea of you running a tab. 

Dave: Can’t be caught doing any more handouts, bro. If I let Lalonde get any further up my cloaca about this, I’ll be walking with a fucking limp. 

John: I’ll give you one of the cranberry muffins Vriska and I made together? 

Dave: I’ve got coil weave, plaited weave, twined weave, and splint weave. Is it functional or decorative? What kind of material are you looking for? C’mon, Egbert, ‘fess up. 

John: I don’t care, it just has to be a certain colour. 

Dave: Which one? 

**[Options]**  
[1. Blue]  
[2. Pink]  
[3. White]  
[4. Green] 

**[1. Blue]**

John: Blue, please. 

Dave: Completely honest question? Do you own anything that isn't blue? 

John: I had a white bunny once! 

John: She… ran off and got eaten by a snake. 

Dave: Way to make an… asp of yourself. 

John: We’re not friends anymore. 

Dave: [laughs] 

**[2. Pink]**

John: I think I’ll go for the pink one. 

Dave: Dude, what kind of friends are you making? 

John: Can I just have the freakin’ basket please? 

**[3. White]**

John: Do you have any white baskets? 

Dave: I have one, but I'm kinda using it right now. 

John: What are you using it for? 

Dave: To put dead things in. 

John: Oh. 

John: Never mind. 

**[4. Green]**

John: Let’s go with green. 

Dave: You don't want green. The only one I got left is obnoxious, lime, and glows in the dark. 

John: That is the best possible basket anyone could ever own. 

John: Ever. 

Dave: Whatever, man, it’s your muffin. 

\------------- 

Dave retreats to the shadows of his nest and emerges a few minutes later, basket in hand. 

**[If Blue]**  
Dave: There you go. Matches your cape and everything. 

**[If Pink]**  
Dave: I…  
Dave: Y’know what? I got nothing. Just...just take the stupid basket. 

**[If Green]**  
Dave: Here you go. One totally not radioactive glowing green basket. Ugh. 

\------------- 

Dave: Pleasure doing business with you.

John: Thanks for your help! 

John: May the Sweep bring you to great heights! 

Dave: I’m not sayin’ the thing. 

John: Dude, just say the thing. 

Dave: What if I don’t feel like saying the thing? 

Dave: What if by initiating this holiday-themed farewell, you are actually deliberately forcing me to do something against my will? 

Dave: Are you going to forget not to look down if I don’t remind you? Is it bad luck not to reply? Will the almighty Lord and Muse descend from the skies and smite me for my insubordination? 

Dave: Do I have to spend the rest of my life clutching skulls of the ancestors and praying for forgiveness? 

Dave: “Oh heavens, I did not warn John about looking down! How could I‽ May the Deities have mercy on my poor, eternal bird soul.” 

John: Fine, you don’t have to say it! 

Dave: Don’t look down. 

John: Goddamn it, Dave. 

Nostalgia is a most curious thing. 

A dull sensation of longing that rides on the backs of memories; a profound ache when looking back on how things once were, when we were younger, a little more open, and a little less wise. 

Standing at the center of her nest, Vriska stares at the feather as if its existence mocks her own. 

Is it possible to ache for something you regret? 

There’s a knock on the banisters of Vriska’s balcony. 

Vriska: Come in. 

Dave: Goddamn it, the line is supposed to be "two bits", not "come in." 

Dave: That doesn't even make any sense, it's like you're not even trying to do a stupid comedy skit with me. 

Vriska: Hey, Strider. What are you doing here? 

Dave: What, can’t a guy visit his favourite lady-pirate without being interrogated? I wasn't expecting the Spanish Inquisition. 

Vriska: When was the last time we even spoke? 

Dave: ... 

Dave: I’ve been hearing about you, though. 

Vriska: Oh, _really?_ What’ve you heard? 

Dave: I... don't think what I've heard should be repeated in polite company. 

Vriska: Very funny. 

**[Options]**  
[1. Compare discovered feather to Dave’s feathers.]  
[2. Ask about John.]  
[3. Ask if he has his Token ready yet.] 

**[1. Compare discovered feather to Dave’s feathers.]**

Vriska: Wait a minute... 

Vriska: Hold still. 

Dave: Hey--what‽ 

Vriska grabs Dave by the shoulders and spins him around until his back faces her. She holds the red feather John left behind against the bottom of Dave’s wings. 

The colours don’t match. Dave’s flight feathers are black. 

Vriska: _Shit._

Dave: Serket, what the hell are you doing? Whose feather is that? 

Vriska: I was _hoping_ it was yours. 

Dave: That feather? Nope. I’m only red at the top, see? 

Dave: Did you forget why you started calling me redwing in the first place? Serket...I’m hurt. 

Vriska: Forgive me if I don’t remember the reasoning behind every name I’ve ever called someone. 

Dave: You are forgiven. 

Dave: It’s because I’m the only one in the Canopy who wears red, since it scares all you Hunter-types away so easy. The colour’s a big omen of death for you guys, isn’t it? Real bad luck? 

Vriska: Ugh, the colour doesn’t _scare_ anyone. Yeah, it’s the colour of death, but wearing it just makes you look cocky. I don’t understand how you haven’t gotten yourself killed yet. 

Vriska: What kind of guardian with _any_ shred of common sense would let their hatchling live in Hunter territory wearing a colour like that? 

Dave: Yeah, Bro sorta let me do all sorts of really stupid shit that probably should have killed me. He was cool like that. 

Dave: Like this cape? Just some ratty-ass blanket I had when I was little. I’d tie it around my neck to get my Superman on, and Bro, in all of his ironic brilliance, sewed it up to look like a proper cape. 

Dave: Couldn’t let him get away with that shit, so I started wearing it twenty-four-seven. 

Dave: Then he was all like, “Little man, if you’re gonna be around Hunters in a colour like that, you better learn how to not get your ass kicked.” 

Dave: He then proceeded to kick my ass until I stopped sucking at swordfighting. 

Dave: The end. 

Vriska: Fascinating. 

Dave: Please, hold your applause. 

**[2. Ask about John.]**

Vriska: Have you seen John around lately? 

Dave: Yeah, he dropped by my place earlier. Needed to talk about a couple of things. 

Vriska: What kind of things? 

Dave: Nuh-uh, no can do. Telling you about the things would go against the code. 

Vriska: What code? 

Dave: _The_ code. 

Vriska: What does this code entail, exactly? 

Dave: Telling you about the code would also go against the code. 

Vriska: _Uggggggggh._

Dave: So I heard you helped him bake muffins today. 

Vriska: What’s it to you? 

Dave: Girl, do you even like muffins? 

Vriska: Of course I like muffins! What loser would pretend to like muffins‽ 

Dave: Someone who cares less about muffins and more about the muffin man. How’s life on Drury Lane working out for you, by the way? 

Vriska: Are you implying what I think you’re implying? 

Dave: What am I implying? 

Vriska: Stop answering my questions with more questions!!!!!!!! 

Dave: Why, does that bother you? 

Vriska: UGGGGGGGGH. 

**[3. Ask if he has his token ready yet.]**

Vriska: _I believe you have something for me?_

Dave: Do I? Nah, I’m just playing, here it is. 

Dave pulls out a small, square package. 

Dave: I got you a CD. And if John asks, I totally didn’t. 

Vriska: A CD? Isn’t this a bit rich for your blood? 

Dave: Hey. 

Dave: For your information, I didn’t step foot in no marketplace. Harley put together a bunch of electronic shit for me to produce with. 

Dave: I know better than to ask that girl questions about where she gets her shit. 

Dave: This ain’t just any old CD. It’s my music on there, made just for you. Enjoy. 

Vriska: I don’t have a CD player. 

Dave: Yeah… you should probably get on that. 

Dave leaves the package on a nearby table, and motions to the bottle of wine sitting there. 

Dave: So, uh...now that we’ve got this Token stuff out of the way, how about we crack open the wine to celebrate? 

Vriska: Uh, how about we don’t? That’s for celebration night, dummy. 

Dave: Come on, one glass. No one has to know. 

Vriska: Everyone in the Canopy got a bottle, why don’t you just open your own? 

Dave: Hell no, I’m saving mine for celebration night. 

Dave: I would borrow some from John, but… the Understory dwellers always get the shittier vintages. 

Dave: Although they’re not so much shitty vintages as they are basically fuckin’ grape juice. 

A glint at the opposite side of Vriska’s nest catches Dave’s eye. 

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Dave strolls over to the far, hidden corner of the room, where an array of blades sits mounted on the wall. 

Sabres, daggers, machetes. Rapiers. Longswords. A claymore that he guessed probably weighs more than he does. All sharpened edges with heavy hilts and intricate sheaths. 

All stolen. 

Dave: Hm. 

Vriska: What? 

Dave: Nothin’. 

Vriska: You made a noise. 

Dave: Just admiring the view. 

Vriska: ... 

Dave: ... 

Vriska: _Well‽_

Dave: Mine’s better. 

Vriska: Bullshit. 

Dave: Scout’s honor. Bro left his sword collection behind when he flew the coop, I’ve been adding to it ever since. 

Dave: See, I’ve been in a lot of challenges, but if it’s with a sword-user, I get to jack their best weapon when I win. Boo-yeah. 

A large, bright blue sword stars as the centerpiece of the collection. A downwards-pointing crescent moon serves as the pommel, and the point of the blade itself curves downwards on itself in a long, sharp hook. Ornate, yet functional. 

It takes Dave two hands to lift it from the shelf--one wrapped at the grip, one at the flat of the blade. 

Dave: Haven’t taken this one for a spin in a _while_ , have you? 

Vriska: It’s for special occasions. 

Dave: I would never put you and swords together, though. I always figured you were more of an explosives kind of gal. 

Vriska: You remember that, huh? Eh, I dabbled when I was younger. Then I grew up and decided to put my efforts into something a little more sophisticated. 

Dave: Uh-huh. 

Dave: And here I thought it was because your explosives just sucked. 

Vriska: Watch yourself, Strider. 

Vriska: If you keep talking like that, I might just go ahead and challenge you for that pretty little nest of yours, and then where would you be? 

Dave tilts the sword until it nearly glows blue in the sunlight. 

Dave: I would be approximately… one sword richer. 

Vriska: [calm laughter] 

Vriska: I think it’s time for you to leave. 

Dave: Wouldn’t you know it, I was just on my way out. 

Dave rests the sword back in its space upon the wall. 

Dave: May the Sweep bring you to great heights. 

Vriska: Don’t look down. 

Hands tucked back in his pockets, he heads for Vriska’s balcony. A blink later, and he’s gone. 

Vriska puts a hand on her hip and sighs, rolling the stem of the bright red feather between her thumb and index finger. 

She chews the inside of her cheek, anxiousness rising in her gut. 

She would need to pay an old friend a visit. This couldn’t wait until morning. 

**Scene 1.2 - John and Karkat. Forest Floor.**

Navigating to the Forest Floor is challenging enough in the daylight, even when using the secret pathways John had memorized over the years, yet the journey proves exceptionally more difficult under the glow of quickly fading sun. 

Basket in hand, John jolts with every poke, nick, and tear hidden branches and unseen thorns steal against him. It’s dusk when he reaches the Floor, but by the time he remembers the sequence of the twists and turns he’d taken to stumble upon the stranger’s nest, the moonglow pours dull white across the clearing. 

The stranger is no longer lying beneath the tree, but his sickle still rests in the grass nearby. 

Figuring the other boy will be back eventually, John has a seat, propping himself up between two thick roots at the base of the tree. And there he waits. And waits. 

And waits. 

[???]: What are you doing here? 

John: [snorts, barely coherent mid-dream waking up mumbling.] 

[???]: Uh. 

John: Oh, hey! Wow, I must’ve dozed off, there. 

John: I… couldn’t wait until tomorrow. 

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, John tries to focus. The moonlight frames the other boy’s form, revealing a row of bright red flight feathers at the base of his muted grey wings. The shadows beneath his eyes tell tales of stress and little sleep. 

(What is that in his hands? Is that a shovel?) 

John: Woah... 

John: You’re a _Hunter‽_

[???]: Of course I’m a Hunter, when was that ever in question? 

John: Well, your wings, I mean... 

John: Hunters’ flight feathers are different from the rest of their wings, they’re always caste-coloured. But...Hunters don’t come in red. 

[???]: Thanks for the biology lesson, any other brilliant fucking insight you’d like to share? 

John: What’s with the _shovel?_ Isn’t a little late to be gravedigging? 

[???]: What are you doing here? 

John: I brought you muffins, dude. Muffins and tea. 

John: Actually, I just brought hot water since there are tea leaves down here... but then it took way longer than I expected to make it here, and...since I fell asleep, I’m guessing it isn’t so hot anymore. 

The stranger’s eyes dart back and forth, from the neatly packed basket with the thermos wedged at the side, to the expression on John’s face, searching for a revelation of true intent between cold muffins and a tired smile. 

Sighing, the Hunter resigns, standing his shovel up in the dirt. He seats himself a couple of feet away from John--close enough for conversation, but distanced enough to bolt in the other direction at any given time. 

John grabs a muffin and nudges the basket over in Karkat’s direction. 

[???]: ...you actually brought me a hand-weaved basket. 

**[If Blue]**  
John: Yep, because I mean everything I ever say. 

John: Ever. 

[???]: I apologize for doubting your sincerity about this. 

John: Apology accepted. 

**[If Pink]**  
John: Not just any hand-weaved basket! A _pink_ hand-weaved basket, like you said, remember? 

[???]: Did I? 

[???]: I don’t remember half the shit I say, it usually just pours out in an acidic pool of short-sighted vitriol. I don’t know whether to be flattered or creeped out you even paid attention. 

John: Are you that not used to people actually listening to you? 

[???]: Don’t make me sound pathetic. 

**[If Green]**  
[???]: I don’t think I’m comfortable eating food out of something that glows. 

John: It’s okay! Dave assured me it was 100% not radioactive. 

[???]: Who’s--that doesn’t actually help me at all. 

John: Hey, I’m eating from it, so if it’s poisoned, I guess we’re poisoned together. 

John: We can haunt Dave about his faulty merchandise after we die. Deal? 

[???]: I don’t even...sure, deal. 

Keeping an eye on John to make sure he’s eating as well, the Hunter takes a muffin from the basket, and gives it a sniff. 

[???]: Cranberry, right? 

John: Hell yeah. 

John: So do you have a name, or what? I’m kinda tired of referring to you in my head as “that red-feathered guy who lives under the tree”. 

[???]: It’s… Karkat. 

John: Just Karkat? 

[???]: For all intents and purposes, yes, just Karkat. 

Karkat: ...so. John Eggbird? 

John: Egbert. 

Karkat: Right. Egbert. 

Karkat: Is that...is that one G, or two? [soft laugh] 

John: I don’t get it. 

Karkat: Oh. I--it’s a joke. See. Because. 

Karkat: ...never mind. 

Karkat takes a bite. John fails to keep himself from smiling. 

**[Options]**  
[1. Ask him about life down here.]  
[2. Ask him why he keeps looking at you funny. (plot progression)]  
[3. Ask him about his sickle.] 

**[1. Ask him about life down here.]**

John: So. How goes life? 

Karkat: It goes. 

John: Cool. 

John: Nice setup you got under the tree, by the way. I didn’t think I’d ever see a nest more cramped than mine. 

Karkat: That’s because it’s less of a nest and more of a fucking hole in the ground. But it keeps the rain out, so whatever. 

John: How did you end up down here, anyway? 

Karkat: It’s a long story I don’t feel like getting into right now. Won’t be getting out anytime soon, anyway. 

John: Oh, c’mon, don’t you have dreams? Aspirations? Stuff you wanted to be when you grew up? 

Karkat: I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my options are kind of fucking limited. I can’t afford to waste time planning things that aren’t directly related to my survival. 

John: But why are the Imperial Guards even keeping people down here in the first place? 

Karkat: It’s not that hard to “keep people down here”. Whether it’s one reason or another, no one on the Floor can fly. 

John: Wait...you can’t fly? 

Karkat: Nope. I was cast out before I ever got the chance. 

John: Want me to teach you? 

Karkat: What? 

John: I’m a great flier, but...if you haven’t ever used your wings before, your muscles are going to be too underdeveloped for you to use them. You’ll need to do some exercises before we start. 

John: We also need to get you eating better so your flight feathers stop falling out. I don’t know if you even have enough to fly right now. 

John: If I can get you off the ground, you’re probably not going to be able to carry yourself very high for very long without getting tired. But we can definitely try. 

Karkat: Could you slow the fuck down--I haven’t agreed to anything yet! 

Karkat: What makes you think you’re even qualified to pull this off? 

John: Because I had an awesome teacher! Vriska showed me all the ins and outs of beginner’s flying. 

Karkat: She taught you how to _fly_ , too? 

John: Yeah! 

John: Well, it wasn’t so much “teaching” as it was her picking me up and dropping me from heights until I figured out how to work my wings, but! I will not do that to you, I promise. 

Karkat: Vriska. Vriska Serket. The same Vriska Serket you came down here to get tea leaves for. 

John: Yep! She also helped me bake all these muffins. 

John: Why, do you know her? 

Karkat: Unfortunately. 

Karkat: But teaching you how to fly? Baking muffins? Hosting you during the Sweep? Doesn’t sound anything like the Vriska I knew. Either she’s got you under some bizarro fucking mind-control, or you and her are... 

John: What? 

Karkat: Nothing, it was rude of me to imply-- 

John: Woah woah woah, Vriska and I aren’t like that! She just helped me out during a really hard time. 

John: She’s an amazing friend and all, but between you and me, she can get a little… intense, sometimes. 

John: Not a spirited, impassioned, caught-in-the-moment sort of intense, more of a, “I will break holes in your roof with my giant badass sword if you piss me off” kind of intense. 

Karkat: Oh, _there’s_ the Vriska I used to know. I was wondering where the hell she went. 

John: How do you know her, anyway? 

Karkat: She was... 

Karkat: ...a friend of a friend of mine. 

John: You’re going to have to do better than that. 

Karkat: ... 

John: Dude, I made you muffins. 

Karkat: It’s not a big secret or anything, it was just...years ago, when we were kids. 

Karkat: The only reason I knew the great Vriska Serket was because she spent all of her free time with my best friend, dragging her around to revel in immaturity. 

Karkat: Called themselves the Scourge Sisters. Juvenile bullshit, if you ask me. 

John: Sounds like you were just jealous. 

Karkat: I was _not_. 

John: Oh, you were so jealous. Big-time. 

Karkat: Would you be jealous if your friend found someone to commit murders with? 

John: Vriska… _killed_ people? 

Karkat: They both did. I don’t know how many people or how often it was, but I distanced myself from that side of her. Murder wasn’t the only way they wreaked havoc, either, trust me. 

Karkat: Anyway, we were all young and stupid. It was years ago. Things have changed. I doubt either of them even remember my name. 

John: ...are you afraid your best friend doesn’t remember you? 

Karkat: That’s the exact opposite of what the fuck I’m afraid of. 

John: What? 

Karkat: Here’s an idea! Let’s talk about something else. 

**[3. Ask him about his sickle.]**

John: Where’d you find that sickle of yours? The colours are pretty funky. 

Karkat: You know, there’s actually a really interesting story behind that. 

John: Can I hear i-- 

Karkat: I’m eating. 

**[2. Ask him why he’s looking at you funny.]**

John: Dude, why do you keep looking at me like I’m about to bite your head off? Do you still not trust me? Because you can totally trust me. 

John: Even if that _is_ exactly the kind of thing someone untrustworthy would say. 

John: Not that I’m untrustworthy, or anything. I just don’t want you looking at me sideways like I poisoned your muffin with cyanide, or something. 

John: I didn’t poison the muffins with cyanide. If I did, I’d be dead, too. We’re eating from the same batch. 

John: Not that it would be particularly _difficult_ to make two separate batches, and...make sure I only eat the untainted ones, and...oh wow, I--I’m explaining myself really badly, here. 

John: I’m not trying to kill you. 

John: Please stop looking at me like that. 

Karkat: Your face is bleeding. 

John: What? 

John touches a hand to the side of his cheek and feels a line of dried blood beneath his eye. He scratches at it, instinctively. 

John: Crap, I must’ve nicked myself on the way down here. 

Karkat: I thought you were the expert flier. 

John: I am! I’m sorry I don’t have _super awesome night vision_ like you Hunters do. 

Karkat: Stop picking at it, you’re making it bleed more! 

John: I can’t help it, it’s itchy! 

Karkat: You’re getting blood all over your face! 

John: You’re exaggerating, it’s just a scratch! 

Karkat: Look, just--you said there’s plain water in this thermos? 

John: Yeah, but-- 

Karkat’s already tearing off a strip of fabric from the end of his own cloak. 

He twists open the thermos and tilts it sideways, bunching the bundle of cloth near the opening. The fabric darkens as it grows damp. 

Karkat leans forward to raise the cloth to John’s face, but draws his hand away a split-second after. 

Karkat: Is it alright if I... 

Karkat: Because you can’t see it, so. 

John: Wh--sure, yeah, go for it. 

Holding John’s chin with one hand, Karkat tilts John’s head to the side, dabbing the wet strip of cloth against the side of John’s face. John winces as the cloth brushes around the reopened wound on his cheek. 

Karkat is surprisingly gentle. 

John makes an effort to look off to the side, into the darkness, trying to find some interesting pattern in the moon-licked outlines of leaves, some captivating subject in the shadows, but his line of vision drifts around and around until it settles on Karkat. 

In that moment, Karkat looks far less intense; his brows relaxed, eyes fixed on the task at hand, hint of a tongue peeking out from behind lips pursed in concentration. 

Karkat glances over to find John staring at him. 

John doesn’t break eye contact. Karkat’s hand stops moving. 

John: Hello. 

Karkat: Hi. 

John: From this angle it kinda looks like you have a unibrow. 

Karkat: Gee, thanks. 

Karkat goes back to cleaning John’s wound. John goes back to trying to find shapes in the dark. 

Karkat speaks up again. 

Karkat: I’m going to ask you a question. And I want you to tell me the truth. 

John: Go for it. 

Karkat: Why are you being so nice to me? 

John: I dunno. I’ve never really thought about it. 

Karkat: Start thinking. 

John: Oh. Well... 

John: I guess it’s...sorta because I’ve never had the chance to help anyone out before? 

John: My dad raised me, but he left before he showed me how to use my wings. I couldn’t do anything to stop him from leaving, and I can’t do anything to find him. 

John: Then it was Vriska who taught me how to fly. She’s looked out for me all this time, kept tabs on me, made sure I was going in the right direction and not getting involved with the wrong things. 

John: I started realizing how I never did anything for myself anymore. So, a couple of Sweeps ago, I took a page from my friend Jade’s book and I started going exploring. 

John: I started escaping to places no one knew about, places where no one was hovering over me all the time. 

John: And then today I found you. And I thought. 

John: Maybe if I could help this one guy, even a little bit, I’d stop feeling so useless. 

Karkat: So that’s what I am to you. A charity case. 

Karkat: Some kind of helpless pet you use to get over your own self-esteem and independence issues. 

John: What? No! No, no, it’s more like. 

John: I finally have the power to give someone else a break for once, because Muse knows I can’t do anything to help anyone up there if I tried. 

The other boy pulls away, wrapping the wad of blood-stained cloth into a ball. 

John: Karkat? 

Karkat doesn’t look him in the eye for the next part. 

Karkat: Did you want to spend the night here? I don’t have bedding, but if you use your cloak as a blanket, the leaves make half-decent pillows. You can take the left side, I’ll take the right. 

Karkat: I figure it’s a better alternative to breaking your neck trying to get back home in the middle of the night. 

John: Are you inviting me to a sleepover? 

Karkat: I... 

Karkat: You know what, yeah, that’s exactly what I’m fucking doing. Let’s gorge ourselves on muffins by the light of mushrooms and talk shit about people we don’t like. 

John: Is that what people do at sleepovers? 

Karkat: Fuck if I know, I’ve never had one before. 

John: Neither have I. I’ve...never slept anywhere that wasn’t my dad’s place. [line should incorporate a nervous laughing of the words.] 

Karkat: It’s up to you. I just thought I’d offer. 

**[If Blue]**  
Karkat: You can leave the muffins out here. It’s dark inside and one of us might end up stepping on them, or something. 

**[If Green]**  
Karkat: You can leave the muffins out here. That glowing’s going to keep me up half the night and I don’t feel like getting cancer while I sleep. 

Without further ado, Karkat squeezes himself into the crawlspace beneath his tree. 

John considers going home, but the sting in his cheek reminds him of the possibility of getting injured even further while stumbling through branch-laden pathways in the dark. 

John quietly follows Karkat into the crook. 

The crook is much deeper than John expects. He topples into the corner. 

John: OOF. 

Karkat: Oh yeah, watch your step. 

John: Gee, thanks. 

John rights himself. Save for trace beams of moonlight spilling in through the opening overhead, it’s nearly pitch-dark beneath the tree, making it difficult to see. The area is also considerably cooler, being underground. 

Pressing his back to the left wall, John wraps his cloak snugly around himself before lying down. The space beneath the tree is not quite big enough to accommodate them both; the bottoms of John’s shoes nudge the edge of Karkat’s, and they both reflexively curl into themselves, putting an inch of distance between them while they both mutter quiet apologies. 

There’s silence for a while, until... 

Karkat: I’d go with the horse-sized duck. 

John: What? 

Karkat: This morning, you asked if I’d rather fight a horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses. I’m going with the horse-sized duck because a stampede of a hundred tiny horses would be fucking terrifying. 

John: Yeah, but what if you _tamed_ them? Then you could have a stampede of a hundred tiny horses as pets. 99999 

Karkat: What good is taming a horse you can’t even ride? 

John: Slave labour. 

Karkat: Oh. 

Karkat: Egbert, I get the feeling you’ve spent a little too much time thinking about this. 

John: I have a lot of free time on my hands. 

There’s a muffled sound of Karkat adjusting himself, nestling into the leaves. If he squints, John can just barely make out the edge of cloak Karkat ripped off, tattered and loose-threaded under the moonlight. 

John absently touches his wounded cheek in the dark. 

John: ...goodnight, Karkat. 

Karkat: Goodnight. 

The word sounds unfamiliar to Karkat’s voice. 

As he falls asleep, John wonders about the last time Karkat got a chance to say it. 

**Scene 2.2: Vriska Terezi. Terezi’s nest.**

The Imperial Guards didn’t let Vriska into the grounds at first. 

When she holds her arms akimbo and barks her name in their direction, they instantly make an exception. 

Power is when your name serves as a password. 

The most notable thing about Terezi’s nest is the scent. 

The smell of the room is too many things at once: old law books in the shelves, fresh ropes dangling from the ceiling, and the faded musk of chemicals, whichever chemicals she uses to preserve the massive snake skins pinned to her walls. 

Terezi circles her visitor at a casual pace, a whole head shorter, her long, slender hands folded behind her back. Terezi cranes her neck and looks at Vriska up and down, evaluating from behind her blindfold. 

Terezi carries the scent of her nest. Too many things at once. 

Terezi: Look who it is! I haven’t seen you since the accident. 

Vriska: I doubt you’ve _seen_ much these days. 

Vriska: Man, will you stop pacing around me like that? You’re making me dizzy. 

Terezi: Hehehehehe. 

Terezi: What brings you out here in the middle of night? You interrupted my beauty sleep, you know. 

Vriska: C’mon, Pyrope, we both know you don’t sleep. You’re in full attire, for Muse’s sake. 

Terezi: Irrelevant. 

Terezi: I know you’re here for a reason, so spit it out, already! I don’t have time for you to dance around the topic like you usually do. 

Terezi: What kind of trouble are you in this time?

**[Options]**  
[1. Vehemently deny the allegation of trouble.]  
[2. Change the topic to ask about her recent hunts.]  
[3. Bring her down a notch.] 

**[2. Change the topic to ask about her recent hunts.]**

Vriska: Hey, Pyrope, how are those hunts of yours coming along? Looks like you’re racking up quite the snake collection. 

Terezi: Aren’t they awesome? I’ve been naming them, too. 

Terezi: The big one on the wall is Advisor Venomslick. And the furniture’s made out of Lieutenant Screechfang. Mostly. 

Terezi: Then there’s Liason Greenbreath, Captain Rattlestone, Foreman Bloodspike, Agent Rosetongue, Judge Berryscale, Senator Soilbelly, Admiral Peachfuzz, Constable Cuddlesnuff, Inspector Bananatail... 

Vriska: But no sign of the one that blinded you. 

Terezi: No. No, not yet. 

Terezi: Years of hunting and Pyralspite still eludes me. The bastard spits his venom in my eyes and evaporates into thin air like a giant white phantom. 

Terezi: I’ll spit my last breath at him if that’s what it takes. 

Vriska: ...yeeeeeeeeah, your obsession with snakes is definitely bordering on fetishistic at this point. Consider me officially concerned about your sanity. 

Terezi: Can it, Serket.

**[3. Bring her down a notch.]**

Vriska: Why are you getting all high-and-mighty on me out of the blue? Man, this position’s really gone to your head. You used to be way more fun. 

Terezi: What’s your point of reference for how I “used to be”? 

Vriska: When we were close! When we hung out and kicked ass together! 

Terezi: When we were thirteen? 

Vriska: Yeah!!!!!!!! 

Vriska: Now you’re all paperwork and bureaucracy and capital punishment, what the hell happened? 

Terezi: Sorry I stopped playing dress-up with you, I guess. _The great Scourge Sisters_ weren’t going to last forever. These things die. It happens. 

Vriska: You’re the one who walked away! 

Terezi: No, _I’m_ the one who grew up. 

Terezi: If you want to spend the rest of your Sweeps playing pirate, that’s your choice, but take a step back and look where it’s gotten you. 

Vriska: Where it’s gotten _me?_ Why not where it’s gotten _you?_

Vriska: Remember when you were climbing your precious legal ranks and you told me you couldn’t risk being friends with someone who was planning to raise as much hell as I was? 

Vriska: I wanted top _everything_ recorded in the journal my mom left me. That was my dream! Not only to be like her, but to be a million times better. 

Vriska: But I put aaaaaaaall that aside to become a better person for you. No more underhanded shenanigans. No more trickery and mayhem. 

Vriska: I even took a poor little orphaned Perch under my wing! Taught him how to fly and everything, remember? 

Terezi: Don’t act like giving up your petty checklist of terrorism was for my sake. I was there with you when you took over your first ship. When we were dumb kids trying to play grown-up? 

Terezi: You kept me up all night sharpening that stupid blue sword of yours. Remember? Rambling about how great it was going to be to get your first kills? 

Terezi: But then you did it. And instead of taking the vessel, you burned it down until it sank to the bottom of the sea. 

Terezi: I could hear it in your voice. 

Terezi: You don’t like murder. 

Vriska: [gentle laughter] 

Vriska: But you do. 

Terezi: It’s not murder if you’re killing the right people. 

Vriska: Right, and you’re only doing it because you have to! I’m sure aaaaaaaall of these dead assholes you’ve delivered justice to keep you up at night, haunting you with their screams and their cries and their twisted little faces. 

Terezi: I’m so sorry your violent slaughter of five innocent shipmates was so traumatizing for you. Please tell me more. 

Vriska: You know what, Pyrope? One day, you’re going to fuck up, too. You’re going to fuck up _really bad_ and wish more than anything you could take it back, but you can’t. 

Vriska: You’ll see! When that day comes, I hope you get around to asking yourself if the woman you’ve idolized your entire life is actually someone worth emulating after all. 

Vriska: I know there’s a part of you that wants me wearing one of your pretty little twine necklaces. It’s the same part that drove your mother to try getting one around my mother’s throat. 

Vriska: But you can’t do it. 

Vriska: No matter how much your sense of “justice” drives you, I’m off-limits, as long as I stay out of your way. 

Vriska: We’re still Sisters, you and I. 

Terezi: Yeah, as long as you stay out of my way. 

Vriska: Hrmph.

**[1. Vehemently deny the allegation of trouble.]**

Vriska: Why do you automatically assume I’m in trouble? Maybe I just wanted to come over and say hi. 

Terezi: You flew halfway across the Canopy in the middle of the night to say hi. 

Vriska: That doesn’t mean I’m in trouble. Seriously, when was the last time I was in trouble? 

Terezi: Oh, I don’t know, there was that one time you paralyzed a dirtwing. 

Vriska: Man, I come to you one time for help with a teeny-tiny problem and you refuse to let me live it down! 

Vriska: I said I was sorry. I said I appreciated all your help with that, and that I’m flying straight now! One-hundred-percent, for sure. Jeez, Pyrope, what do you want from me, blood? 

Vriska: It was a one-time thing. It’s in the past now. You don’t have to hover over my shoulder waiting for me to fuck up, but _thanks for the vote of confidence!_

The red fabric around Terezi’s nose scrunches as her brow knits together. 

Terezi: ...you’re living in it _right now,_ aren’t you? 

Vriska: I’m just making use of what I won! 

Terezi: An _illegal_ winning in an _illegal_ challenge! It was an unauthorized duel. Unlawful. Unsanctioned. I could have had you strung up by the neck for an act like that. 

Terezi: But I protected you, didn’t I? I protected _you_ by silencing _him_. And now that the Sweep is almost here... 

Vriska: And now that the Sweep is almost here, you won’t have to worry about anything coming back and biting you on your lanky little behind. 

Vriska: Relaaaaaaaax! He’ll be dead soon and I’ll keep my mouth shut and no one has to know about any of this. 

Terezi: That isn’t the point, Vriska. 

Vriska: I know, I know, the point is I’m a terrible, horrible, irredeemable scumbag who doesn’t deserve a sliver of your mercy! I’m sorry, alright? But you made the right choice. 

Terezi: No. The real point is you still owe me. 

Vriska: Consider this repayment. 

Terezi doesn’t flinch when Vriska suddenly grabs her hand. 

Vriska takes the red feather from her pocket and pushes it gently into Terezi’s palm. 

Vriska: _Your_ little mistake from the past? Yeah, thought you should know he’s still alive and kicking. 

Vriska: What’s it been? Three years, now? 

Terezi runs her fingers along the sides of the feather. 

Her next inhale is audible, and it swells beneath her chest. 

Terezi: ...five. 

Vriska: Oh, that’s _right!_ Silly me. 

Vriska: Five _Sweeps_ spent on the Floor. Hell if I know how he lasted that long! But knowing his temper? I bet you _anything_ he’s absolutely _thrilled_ about meeting back up with the Legislascerator who turned him in. 

Vriska: Should I get you two something to celebrate the occasion? Some snacks? A bottle of wine? A pair of vicegrips to help you wrench out that knife you dug into his back? 

Terezi: Is that all? 

Terezi: If you’re done antagonizing me for one night, I’d like to get back to sleep. I have a morning appointment with a limewing I can’t miss. 

Vriska: Man, I really wish you wouldn’t refer to your executions as “appointments”. It’s really creepy. 

Vriska: But sure. See you later, Pyrope. 

Vriska: Or. _I’ll_ see _you_ later, anyway. Whoooooooops! 

Vriska takes her leave. 

Terezi, left alone in her nest with her books and her nooses and her wallpapers of snake scales, twirls the lone feather in her fingers. 

She twirls the feather, and she grins. 

**Scene 1.3: John and Tavros. Forest Floor.**

[???]: Uh... 

[???]: Uh, excuse me? 

[???]: [silence] ... 

[???]: I’ve been waiting for you to wake up for a few hours, now...it’s kind of important that I talk to you... 

[???]: Hello? 

[???]: Nnrgh. 

John: OW! 

John: Did you just _throw a muffin at my head?_

[???]: Sorry... 

[???]: You were breathing, but you weren’t responding, so I thought you might’ve been in a coma. 

John: And you test out that theory by _throwing a muffin at my head‽_

[???]: Well, it worked, didn’t it... 

John: Who are you? 

[???]: Tavros Nitram, captain of the Floor Patrol. I’m in charge of searching for people down here who don’t know about our community, like you, Mister... 

John: Ugh...you can call me John. 

Tavros: John, alright, yeah, I’ve...never seen you before. I didn’t know Karkat had a... 

Tavros: Um... 

John: A what? 

Tavros: ...this conversation is making me uncomfortable, let’s pretend I didn’t bring that up. 

John: O...kay?

**[Options]**  
[1. Ask him how he knows Karkat.]  
[2. Ask him about the Floor Patrol.]  
[3. Ask him what’s wrong with his wings.] 

**[1. Ask him how he knows Karkat.]**

John: How do you know Karkat? 

Tavros: Well, I’m part of the Patrol, which means I walk around a lot to scout, and I kinda found him by accident during my routine rounds. He spends almost all of his time ignoring me, though. 

John: Almost? 

Tavros: Almost. 

Tavros: I’ve been visiting him on and off for several months, trying to get him to join our community instead of, you know, isolating himself way out here, but he never spoke to me. At least not until a few weeks ago. 

Tavros: I’ll never forget what he said. 

Tavros: “My name is Karkat Vantas.” 

Tavros: “If you have a modicum’s sense of self-preservation, you will run north. You will run north until your legs give out and you sleep where you fall. And you will keep doing this until the Sweep is over.” 

Tavros: “If you’re still alive by then, come find me.” 

Tavros: It was very poetic. Actually, I had the feeling he rehearsed that. 

Tavros: I thought over what he said for a while, and I came back today to ask him about it, but I guess he isn’t here. 

John: That is... 

John: _...really freaking creepy._

John: I wonder why he said north. 

Tavros: Well, if you were to run, north makes the most sense, since the Imperial Guards’ headquarters is in the west, and the further south you go, the more predators there are. 

John: And the east? 

Tavros: The east is nothing but tea leaves, everyone knows that. 

**[3. Ask him what’s wrong with his wings.]**

John: Dude...what happened to your wings? 

Tavros: Oh... 

Tavros: It’s kind of personal, that is to say, I’d rather not go into details right now, but, suffice it to say, they’re broken, for good. 

John: Do you miss flying? 

Tavros: More than anything...it sucks because I, well, I used to make maps a lot, all the time, actually. 

Tavros: Before I got sent down here, I was working on this really big map, but it wasn’t just any map, it was a map of how things were in the Strata a long time ago. 

Tavros: I used to fly around to sketch things from overhead, and visit places with my friend Aradia, to see if we could figure out and sketch what was there before. 

Tavros: Sometimes, the way things used to be is a lot more fascinating than the way things are, don’t you think? 

John: Not really. 

Tavros: Ahaha...I guess it’s just me, then.

**[2. Ask him about the Floor Patrol.]**

John: What’s the Floor Patrol? 

Tavros: It’s a group that acts on behalf of the main community, to find more members, like the people abandoned down here, so they don’t think they’re alone. 

Tavros: Actually, it seems heroic, but it’s not as impressive as it sounds...I’m the only member of the Floor Patrol, and it’s kind of a boring job. 

Tavros: How long have you been down here? 

John opens his mouth to explain he was just a visitor, but immediately decides against it, not wanting to risk further compromise of his pathway’s secrecy. 

If Tavros let its existence slip to the rest of his community, it could spell out disaster. 

John: A day or two. Pretty new around these parts. 

John: I don't even remember how I got down here. Wouldn't you know it? Complete amnesia. 

Tavros: Would someone with amnesia remember they had amnesia? 

John: Who are you, again? 

Tavros: Oh, uh, Tavros, Tavros Nitram. 

Tavros: I’m sorry to be the one telling you, no one comes down here because they want to, since the Forest Floor is where people are exiled. 

John: People like...criminals? 

Tavros: Oh no, nothing like that. 

Tavros: If you commit a crime, you just have to pay penance, or perform services for the royalty in the Emergent to make up for it. If the crime’s really bad, they’ll just, you know... 

Tavros: The Floor’s where they put people...well, people like you and me, I guess. The old, the sick, the...injured. 

Tavros: You’re probably here, because of your obvious mental shortcomings. 

John: ... 

Tavros: Most people who get relocated here can’t fly, but those who can get their wings clipped before they’re taken. 

Tavros: Anyone who can’t fly is Floored. It’s an awful pun to base lives off of, but the Grand Highbird’s sense of humor is questionable, at best. 

John: Who’s the Grand Highbird? 

Tavros: What? 

Tavros: Oh right, you’re a Perch, you wouldn’t know much about Hunter government. 

Tavros: The Grand Highbird is the Emperor of the Strata. He has been ever since the Purple Coup a few years ago, when he overthrew Empress Peixes for the throne. 

Tavros: With the Emperor’s reputation for instability, I thought a lot of things would change under his rule, but aside from this new decree of outcasting the unworthy, nothing’s changed, nothing at all, and I always found it weird. 

Tavros: The decree itself must be recent, too, since no one I’ve met down here has been here longer than seven or eight months, myself included. 

John: Karkat told me he’s been here for years. 

Tavros: _Years‽_ I don’t know how he’s managed for so long...resources are hard to come by, not to mention all the predators lurking around. 

John: Why is Karkat down here, anyway? 

Tavros: No offence, but...have you looked at the guy? Hunters don’t have red feathers, he doesn’t fit in with the caste system. 

Tavros: He’s here because he’s a... 

Tavros: Because he’s a mutant. 

Tavros: I _think_ it might be why he doesn’t want to associate himself with the rest of us. He’s embarrassed...which is a shame, since we’re preparing for the Sweep and an extra set of hands would be helpful. 

John: But...why do you guys celebrate the Sweep? Aren’t the people responsible for creating the holiday the same ones who sent you down here? 

Tavros: That doesn’t matter. 

Tavros: The Sweep is about being together, celebrating what you’ve earned and what you’ve survived, and that you will survive as long as you’re able. 

Tavros: Where better to celebrate than here? 

John: But this is such bullshit! Royalty or not, they can’t just throw you--or, us--down here like trash! Don’t you have any family or friends who will fight for you? 

Tavros: Nah. People like us, we don’t...normally have very many friends. I don’t even have many friends down here. 

Tavros: Well. Except Dante. 

John: Dante? 

Tavros: He’s my pet, but I guess pet’s not the right word, exactly, he doesn’t live with me, and I don’t feed him, and he comes and goes as he pleases, but I feel this kinship with him, you know? 

John: Can’t say that I do. 

Tavros: Wow, does amnesia make you really boring, because that’s what you are. 

John: Hey, dude, I’m not the one making “kinships” with animals. Is that even legal? 

Tavros: Wh--what‽ 

Tavros: Oh. Oh gosh. 

Tavros: You are a horrible person, and you should feel horrible about what you just said. 

Tavros: I don’t want to recruit you as part of our community anymore. 

Tavros: I’m going to go now, before I get any more uncomfortable. 

John: May the Sweep bring you to great heights! 

Tavros: Don’t, don’t look down. 

Tavros: Oh my Muse. 

Tavros wobbles off into the forest until he’s out of sight.

It’s only then John realizes both Karkat’s shovel and the basket of muffins were gone. Apparently Karkat had only left him a single one for breakfast, the one John was assaulted with not a few minutes ago. 

Where had Karkat gone, anyway? 

John makes a few mental notes. If Karkat had, in fact, inhaled the remainder of the muffins, he no longer had any food, not to mention little water left over after taking care of John’s injury. 

He decides it couldn’t hurt to bring down some supplies from home while the day was young.

**Scene 1.4 / 2.3: John and Vriska. John’s nest.**

Vriska didn’t expect John to be absent from his nest when she dropped by in the middle of the night. 

John didn’t expect Vriska to still be at his nest when he returned the following morning. 

John: Vriska... 

John: What are you doing in my nest while I’m not here? 

Vriska: I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d say hello. 

John: How long have you been waiting? 

Vriska: Oh, I don’t know...six or seven hours? 

John: Ahaha...sorry about that. I was hanging out with a friend. It got late, I spent the night. You know how it is. 

Vriska: No big deal. 

Vriska: Hey, I was thinking we should do something today. Like take a day trip into the marketplace. I need to get a CD player, and...you need to find an article of clothing that isn’t blue. 

John: My boots aren’t blue... 

Vriska: See, already off to a great start! Let’s go. 

John: Sorry, Vriska, I can’t today. I’ve...got plans. 

Vriska: With your new friend? 

John: Yeah. 

Vriska: Alright. 

Vriska: Do I know this person you’re suddenly spending all this time with? 

John: Why does it matter? 

Vriska: You know me. Gotta make sure you’re not getting mixed up with the wrong crowd. 

John: Well, you’ve been making sure of that for the past few years. I think I’ve developed a pretty good sense of what’s right and wrong by now.

Making his way across the room, John gathers up the largest satchel he owns and begins walking around the perimeter of his nest, packing away scattered bits of supplies and food. 

Vriska: You don’t know this place like I do, John. This person you’ve met could spell trouble for you. Trouble you don’t realize you’ve gotten into until it’s too late. 

John: Then it’s my risk to take, don’t you think? 

Vriska: No, actually, that’s really stupid. Why you being so secretive? 

John: Why are you so interested? 

Vriska: Because you’ve been acting weird lately! 

Vriska: You’ve been all hush-hush about who you’re hanging around with, you spent your first night away from home and refuse to tell anyone where you were or who you were with-- 

John: How did you know it was my first night away from home? 

Vriska: You basically just admitted it to me. 

John: ...shit. 

John: Look, this is my business, not yours. You don’t have to keep worrying about me all the time. 

Vriska: Man, can’t you get it through your thick skull‽ Your safety is my business. This person is obviously a horrible influence on you, you should stop wasting your time with them.

John angrily shoves a box of cookies into his bag. 

John: He isn’t a waste of my time! 

John: And to be honest? I think you’re less worried over me and more worried over what I might find out about you. 

Vriska: What? 

John: Look me in the eyes and tell me you haven’t been hiding things from me. 

Vriska: Well, excuuuuuuuuse me for not divulging _my whole life story_ to you. 

Vriska: So you found someone who will reveal all my dirty little secrets, is that it? Is that the reason why you find him so fascinating? Because he can tell you all about what a ruthless, horrible bitch I am? 

Vriska: If _that’s_ all you wanted, you could’ve just put on some tea and let me talk about myself for three hours. 

John: Vriska, I’m not stupid. Knowing about you and Hunter culture in general, I always thought you were capable of some pretty horrible things. 

Vriska: I’ll take that as a compliment. 

John: The point is I can understand that. It’s not just the truth about you that you’ve been keeping to yourself. It’s the truth about everything. 

John: Something big is going on in the Strata and you know it, so why can’t you just let me in on it instead of treating me like a kid? Do you think I can’t handle it, or something? 

Vriska: John, listen, it’s not relevant. It doesn’t concern you. Information is power, I’m not going to put you in danger telling you things you don’t have to know. 

John: Then don’t get upset at me for wanting to find stuff out for myself! 

John: This person I met? He’s my friend. And I’m going to get to the bottom of all this with or without your help. 

Vriska: But I’m your friend too, aren’t I? 

Vriska: Why can’t you listen to me when I say this isn’t something you should be messing with? 

John: How come you won’t tell me why? 

Vriska: Because this is bigger than just you and me! 

Vriska: And the less you know, the safer you are. 

John: It’s not your job to keep me safe. 

Vriska: It’s not my job to willingly endanger you. 

Vriska: You’re welcome, by the way. Ungrateful asshole.

John zips up his satchel with a swift, harsh movement. 

Vriska: Going off to find your oh-so-amazing friend again? 

Vriska: Try not to get killed without me. 

John’s fists ball around the strap of his bag. 

John: I don’t... 

John: I don’t want you here when I get back. 

Vriska: ... 

Vriska: Don’t worry. I won’t be. 

John rushes out without another word.

**Scene 2.4: Dave/Vriska, John’s nest.**

The next visitor to John’s nest doesn’t bother knocking. 

Dave: Yo, where’s John at? 

Vriska: He _ran off._

Dave: Alright, cool. 

Vriska: Wait, where are you _going?_ Aren’t you worried? 

Dave: Not really. 

Vriska: Why not? You’re his friend, aren’t you? 

Dave: I’ll start worrying once worrying starts improving the situation. 

Dave: He ain’t exactly a hatchling anymore. Kid can take care of himself. 

Vriska runs a hand through her hair. She sighs heavily. 

Dave: Something on your mind other than plundering booty, Serket? 

Vriska: What do you do when you know a good friend of yours is about to make a really bad decision? 

Dave: Mind my own business. 

Dave: Some people just gotta fuck up before they know what’s good for them. Say your piece, hope for the best, not much else you can do. 

Vriska: Yeah, but what if on a long enough timeline, this decision will end with him dead? 

Dave: You swoop in, save his sorry ass before it even gets that bad, make yourself the big hero, and earn a lifetime of “I told you so”s in the process. 

Dave: But you know that already. Shit, you probably have the sword picked out and everything. 

Dave: So why exactly are you asking me? 

Vriska: Don’t get flattered, I’m just used to talking in that general direction. 

Dave: Sorry, but I’m not playing substitute Egbert tonight. I left my shitty black wig and wide-eyed naivety in my other cape. 

Dave: So Egbert’s gotten himself into some shit, has he? Guessing this has to do with the Sweep? 

Vriska: You know about the Sweep? 

Dave: I have little birds that give me my information. 

Vriska: ...do you think John will still show up to my celebration? 

Dave: Are you afraid he won’t? 

Vriska: Aren’t you? 

Dave: Fear is a rare emotion for me. I’m real picky about the situations I choose to bless with it. 

Dave: Fear’s like a fine garnish. Use it sparingly and on things that deserve it. 

Dave: Nothing bad’s happened yet. We just need to get him to show up. 

Vriska: If he shows up, he’s safe. If he doesn’t... 

Dave: Then he’s gotten himself into even deeper shit, I hear you. You got a plan? 

Vriska: I might. Do you? 

Dave: I’ve been known to have a plan or two from time to time. I’m interested in hearing yours first, though. 

Vriska: Let’s see...how can I make sure John will be at my nest during the Sweep? 

Vriska: Oh, I know! 

Vriska: First, we find a giant basket. Next, we wait for him to come home. Then, when he isn’t looking, we’ll smash him on the head with a giant hammer, and stuff him into the basket. 

Vriska: ...and bring him back to my place. 

Vriska: After that, we can snip his flight feathers while he’s still unconscious so he can’t go anywhere for the next several months. 

Vriska: And we spend the Sweep celebration as one big happy pseudo-family laughing around a fire and getting drunk and listening to your shitty music! 

Vriska: It’s brilliant! 

Dave: How are you planning to fit a giant hammer into Egbert’s tiny-ass nest? 

Vriska: ...hmmm. 

Dave: I was just going to ask him if he’s still planning to go. Saves him a concussion and me a trip to Lalonde’s. 

Vriska: Booooooooring. 

Dave: But effective. Points for creativity, though. Creativity, and...mild traces of psychopathy. 

Vriska: ::::) 

Dave: I’ll let you know how it goes. No cutting flight feathers while I’m gone. 

Vriska: I make no promises.

Dave raises his hand in a quick wave goodbye, and heads back outside. 

With Dave gone, Vriska looks back upon John’s nest, now empty and partially scattered from the boy’s recent rummaging. She tries to shrug off her yearning for a simpler time, but the sensation sticks, relentless, making her teeth clench and something sharp sink into her chest. 

The feeling of change. The expectation of chaos. The foresight of toppled aftermath once the first domino falls. 

On her way out, Vriska stands at the ledge of John’s nest, and looks up. What little she can see of the sky grows grey with rolling clouds. 

The butterfly has flapped its wings, and a storm is on its way.

**Scene 1.5: John/Karkat, rain bit, flashback. Forest floor + Killing Grounds.**

What little sunlight breaks through to the Floor is muddled; the level of dimness so early on in the day is telltale of an overcast sky. 

Rain is on its way. John regrets not remembering to pack a towel. 

When John arrives at the clearing, he finds Karkat facing away from him, sitting next to the missing basket from earlier that day. Karkat’s shovel stands in the dirt nearby. The basket appears to be filled with something other than muffins. 

John: Karkat?

Karkat turns around. 

Karkat: Egbert! I didn’t think you were coming back. 

Karkat: I, uh. I took your basket and picked some berries while I was gone. They’re not much, but I thought I should try paying you back for the food. 

Karkat: They’re not poisonous. I’m not trying to kill you, I promise. 

John: Oh, that’s. That’s great. Thanks. 

Karkat: What’s wrong? 

John: ... 

John: I was planning on leaving after bringing you some supplies, honest. I know we just met, and I don’t want to impose, but... 

John: Do you think I could spend the night down here, again? I don’t...I don’t think I can go home today.

Karkat stares at him for the next few moments. 

He then nods, softly. 

Karkat: Sure. Whatever you’re going through up there can wait until morning. 

John: Thanks.

John takes a seat next to Karkat. John reaches a hand into the basket and begins munching on berries in silence. 

Karkat follows suit, but minds his movements so their hands don’t accidentally touch. 

John: Hey, Karkat? 

Karkat: Yeah? 

John: Why didn’t you tell me the real reason you’re down here? 

Karkat: ... 

Karkat: ...you’ve talked to Tavros. 

John: Yeah. 

Karkat: I never told you because you never asked. 

John: ...I’m asking now.

They both go quiet. 

The basket’s supply of berries dwindles as they continue picking from the stash, staring ahead with their legs folded, eating in silence. 

Karkat loses track of his careful movements, and brushes his fingers against the back of John’s hand. 

Neither of them recoil. 

Karkat takes his hand back from the basket, and stands up. 

Karkat: ...alright. 

Karkat: Follow me. 

Karkat grabs his shovel from the ground and walks off into the brush. 

John leaves the basket behind him. 

The dayshower begins before they arrive. 

It’s nearly a full hour’s walk, but eventually, through the thick huddles of trees, Karkat leads John to another clearing on the Floor, significantly more spacious than the first. A shape lies in the center, but John can’t quite make out what it is from afar. 

The colours of the bark and leaves are different, here. 

Something about the smell of the place makes the hair at the back of John’s neck stand on end. 

The field of grass is broken by equally-spaced grids of rectangular patches of dirt. 

As they approach the center of the field, John recognizes the form on the ground as a body of some unknown Hunter. Lime caste. 

Dead. 

John: Oh-- _Lord._

Karkat: Show some fucking respect, will you? 

Karkat: Only a fraction of the bodies make it all the way down here. The Understory brush is too thick. 

Karkat: Do you know where we are right now? 

John shakes his head. 

Karkat: These are the Killing Grounds. 

It’s not until Karkat approaches the body when John realizes the shallow beginning of an open grave next to it. 

John looks at the corpse near his feet once more. The blood drains from his face. His knees go weak. Sweat tickles the sides of his neck and his hands start to tremble. 

He suddenly feels detached from the world around him, as if he were in a dream, but only now just realized it. 

He doesn’t know whether to vomit or to pass out. 

Karkat: John. 

Karkat: Stay with me. 

John swallows whatever it was at the back of his throat, and nods. 

Karkat: We used to be best friends, Terezi and I. When we were young. 

Karkat: We were nobodies.

John’s attention is drawn from the body; Karkat places a foot at the head of his shovel and starts digging, punctuating his words with the tossing of dirt mounds off to the side. 

Karkat: My guardian died in a freak accident. She lost hers when she was much younger. So we learned things together, things our guardians would’ve taught us if they were around. 

Karkat: We promised, once we got older and our flight feathers grew in, we were going to help each other fly. 

Karkat: We had a plan. 

Karkat: Work hard. Break into the ranks. Become somebodies. 

Karkat: She loved law. The history, the technicalities, the procedures, everything about it. And she was good at it, too. 

Karkat: So she studied, fixated on the idea of becoming the most infamous legislacerator in the history of the Strata. 

Karkat: And I trained. 

Karkat: All I wanted to do was get into a decent threshecutioner flaysquad. Anything to get out of where we were: shitty Understory hollows, because we weren’t old enough or strong enough to defend our own Canopy nests. 

Karkat: We were going to get out. We were going to become somebodies together. 

Karkat: But then we turned thirteen...and our flight feathers came in. 

Karkat: Hers were teal. 

Karkat: Teal is a good caste for her. Not too high, but high enough to get places with some elbow grease and ambition. She had both in spades. 

Karkat: But mine... 

Karkat: Mine were red. 

Karkat: Bright fucking red. Completely off-spectrum. 

Karkat: Hunter society isn’t exactly kind to people who are different. I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere without being harassed. I could be beaten, exiled, even killed, for fuck’s sake, and the Strata wouldn’t bat an eyelash. 

Karkat: I tried keeping it from her as long as I could. Telling her that I didn’t know what was wrong, that I must’ve been a late bloomer or something. 

Karkat: I tore them out. 

Karkat: One by one. I tore them out as long as I fucking could. 

Karkat: I still do it. I can’t stand the fucking sight of them. 

Karkat: I was thirteen when I discovered I was a mutant, and that my entire life would be in the shitter because of it. 

Karkat: I decided I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t keep it a secret forever. I had to leave her behind. 

Karkat: The night I planned to run away, she found me. Wrapped up in bloody sheets, surrounded by the feathers I’d ripped out. 

Karkat: And she did something I didn’t want to think she was capable of. 

Karkat: She turned me in. To get her loyalties noticed by the legal counsel. 

John: Wh-- _what‽_

John: What do you mean she turned you in‽ I thought you guys were friends! 

Karkat: She thought she was doing me a favour. 

Karkat: Instead of letting me be murdered someday by some discriminatory asshole, she took my case all the way up to the Emergent. 

Karkat: I didn’t know this at first, but Empress Peixes has this weird fucking fetish for the underprivileged. The old, the sick, the injured. Locked away in these fancy castle rooms with bars on the windows and doors. 

Karkat: Her own personal fucking zoo. 

_Feferi: To protect you! For your own good._ John: How long were you kept there? 

Karkat: Three months. 

Karkat: It wasn’t so bad. Big castle corridor, three square meals a day. Psychotic Empress poking through your steel bars once every couple of weeks to make sure you had everything you needed. 

Karkat: You were more of a pet than a prisoner. It was degrading as fuck, but compared to life down here... 

John: What happened after those three months? 

Karkat: A coup. 

Karkat: I just remember sounds of battle. And. Explosions. 

Karkat: Things went quiet for a while. No food, no water, no word. 

Karkat: A few days later, the Imperial Guards removed everyone from the Empress’s private misfit gallery. 

Karkat: The last thing I remember is passing by the throne room. 

Karkat: A purplewing sat where Feferi used to be. 

Karkat: He had this look in his eyes that made you wonder just how many people he’s killed. And this...grin that made you realize he’s probably lost count. 

Karkat: I remember these tattoos he had across his face, like scars. They just...glowed. 

Karkat: He had a massive headdress, feathers of all colours. But there was only one fuschia. Right in the middle of it. 

Karkat: The guards marched me and the others down to the Forest Floor. 

Karkat: I never saw the Empress again. 

Karkat stops digging. He climbs out of the shallow grave and holds his shovel beside him, staring down at the limewing’s body. The light shower of rain flattens the Hunter’s hair, making his bangs stick to the sides of his face. 

Karkat: It was three years before I found the Killing Grounds here, stinking with mounds of old skeletons and rotting corpses. 

Karkat: The fresher ones were hung by Terezi’s rope. I knew her nooses well. 

Karkat: I took it upon myself to give them all a proper graveyard. 

Karkat: Threshecutioners are present at the time of the legislacerator’s judgement. They take ceremonial sickles, specially coloured with traditional stripes, and cut the noose once the accused is dead. 

Karkat: It turns out we both reached our childhood dreams. Just in opposite directions. 

Karkat: She’s up there as chief legislacerator, and I’m down here, cleaning up the remainders of her judgement. 

Karkat: I haven’t forgotten what she’s done to me. And I’m keeping myself alive on the chance I find the opportunity to remind her. 

Karkat: If it means dodging a thousand Sweeps, I will find her again. 

Karkat: Turns out, you and I, John? We’re not so different, after all. 

Karkat: We’re both nobodies who had to grow into the role of being completely fucking useless. 

At once, John wraps his arms around the Hunters’ idle form so quickly the Hunter drops his shovel, and the warmth on John’s cheeks is the only thing that differentiates the tears from the rain. 

John: You’re not useless. 

Karkat’s entire body tenses in John’s embrace. 

Karkat doesn’t ease, even as he hooks his arms around John’s shoulders and presses his forehead to John’s chest.


End file.
